A Strange Reflection
by Blue Cat
Summary: Lotor finds himself facing a rather peculiar identity crisis -- one that could mean the worst for all involved. I started this a long time ago and can't believe how short the initial chapters are...they seemed long at the time...*sheepish grin*. Anyhow,
1. Prelude -- Lovers' Leap

(As always, any names you recognize are the property of WEP. And any you don't are the property of ME. Oooo...that rhymes...)

  
  
**A Strange Reflection**   
  
"Looked in the mirror,  
I don't know who I am, anymore.  
The face is familiar.  
But the eyes...the eyes give it all away."  
-James   
  
**Prelude - "Lovers' Leap"**  


The cliff rose high over the stony ground. From above, a layer of cloud hid this fact well, making it seem almost as if one could walk from the edge into the sky itself instead of plummeting to a sure death on the rocks below. The story was often told in younger circles that it was from this very cliff that the mourning Roderigo had leapt in order to join his lost love, Christanya. It was a popular Arusian legend at which adults scoffed. There was no proof that such a thing had ever happened, though that mattered little to the more passionate youth. It was a beautiful, tragic, romantic story, the stuff of which young girls' dreams are made.  
  


Allura could not help but remember the tale herself as she stood there above the clouds. _'Roderigo stood at the cliff's edge, gazing into the sea of clouds, the moon glistening in his tears. "We will be together, my love." he whispered. "I shall walk into heaven and hold you in my arms once again." And with that, he stepped from the cliff and into the heavens themselves...'_ Such a great love had been here. How ironic that it would be here where she waited to meet Lotor, her greatest enemy.  
  


She had little choice in the matter. He had made that more than clear. After so many battles, so many tricks, so many schemes, it seemed that Lotor actually had the upper hand. And it was not a hand that could be as easily shaken of as in the past. The planet was practically the property of Doom already. The prince had requested to meet Allura here because he had something he wished to discuss with her. She felt fairly sure she knew what he was going to say. It had been awhile since his last proposal, but this was the perfect time for another one. He knew she could not say 'no' now, not if he offered her any kind of protection for her planet and her people.  
  


One moment she was alone, looking absently out into the sky, and the next, he was with her. Out of all the times he had come to see her, whether in her gardens or in the forest, she had never heard him coming. Lotor always seemed to simply _appear_. For once, he did not announce his presence by sneaking up behind her and pulling her into his arms. Instead, he offered an unusually courteous greeting.  
  


"Princess Allura. How kind of you to agree to this meeting."  
  


She spun around, startled to hear him when she had not known he had arrived. He was only a few feet away from her and there was no sign of an escort or ship. Her expression hardened at his show of 'manners' and she said in a tone tight with anger, "Skip the gentleman act, Lotor. We both know it's a lie. Just get to the point or...let me get to it for you. If you're going to ask me to marry you..."  
  


"No, no, my dear." Lotor interrupted, holding up a gloved hand as if to halt the words in midair. "No such thing even crossed my mind."  
  


Allura opened her mouth, then shut it again, struck momentarily dumb in surprise. He...wasn't going to ask her to marry him? Then, why on Arus was he here?   
  


In answer to her unspoken question, Lotor smiled slightly. "I've actually come to tell you that you won't have to worry about that anymore. I will no longer be trying to force your favors towards me."  
  


The princess stared at him in confusion. Was this some kind of trick? Was he trying to get her to trust him? "Give it up, Lotor. It's not going to work." she said uncertainly.  
  


He took a step towards her, still smiling. "But, Allura, you don't seem to understand. I'm quite serious about this. My days of wanting you as my bride are over. Love is funny that way...do you know that?"  
  


"What way?" she asked, trying to keep her voice from revealing her nervousness. Something didn't feel right here.  
  


Lotor took another step forward, making Allura take a step back. "Why, how love can change of course. Love and hate, Allura. They are one in the same, you know. Both the same emotion, simply on two different sides. How easy it is to slide from one to the other."  
  


Allura stepped back again. She didn't like the way this was sounding. She thought for a moment that perhaps Lotor had finally snapped. He always seemed dangerously on the edge of insanity. Maybe he had finally crossed it. She looked into his saffron eyes. They were so calm, so sure of what was going on. They did not look like the eyes of a madman. And, for some reason, they did not look like the eyes of Lotor, either. They were the same strange color, the same strange shape with the alien felinoid pupils, but they were lacking...something.   
  


She knew suddenly what it was. In these eyes, she saw none of the passion...the anger...the _desperation_ that had always churned below the prince's arrogant surface. So often Allura had looked into his eyes and been overcome by the tumultuous emotion behind them. Now, there was only a calculated calm, a distance from the entire matter, as if he was viewing this as business and nothing more. Perhaps he _had_ gone insane, after all. Perhaps madness had given him a clarity he could reach no other way. She looked at his detached smile and wondered.  
  


"What does this mean, Lotor?" she asked quietly.  
  


He stepped close to her and, though she wanted to put distance between them, she had already reached the cliff's edge. There was no where to go but down. He put his hand gently under her chin and tipped her head up so she would look at him. "It means, my dear Allura, that I have had enough of you. Enough of your refusals and your rebukes. Enough of your slaps and insults. You will never love me and so I will not love you." His tone was matter-of-fact, though the words would seem those meant to be said in anger. It gave Allura a chill to hear them said so.  
  


He ran a finger softly along her jaw line. "You are beautiful, princess, but you are also cruel...to deny a man a second chance. To judge him solely on past deeds and of the deeds of his father, without considering _why_ he did them. I dreamed of you since first I saw you...lusted after you, worshiped you, _agonized_ over you. But, no more."  
  


At once, his hand tightened on her jaw, clamping it painfully in a vice-like grip. Even if she had not been frozen in place by fear and confusion, she knew there was little chance of escape. Her feet were at the cliff's edge, the ground crumbling away loosely under her heels. Lotor brought his face close to hers, his still perfectly relaxed yellow eyes looking straight into her frightened blue ones. "What does it mean, you ask?" he murmured softly. "It means simply _this_, princess...I have decided to put you out of my misery."   
  


And with that, he calmly pushed her from the cliff.  



	2. 1 -- Planetary Silhouette

**1 — "Planetary Silhouette"**  
  


Nakiva sat back with a hissed sigh, long fingers massaging his forehead. It would not be long before he was called again and he had little or nothing new to report. As if this came as a surprise. It was not easy to focus his sight beyond the barriers of the palace and it became even harder when he was asked to look so far away. There were infinite planets out there...Infinite civilizations and situations. How could she expect him to find just the right one? The proverbial needle in the haystack? He was beginning to think there was nothing to be found.  
  


A warm, stale breeze blew in from the open window, stirring papers and ruffling Nakiva's dark purple hair. The wind stank. Though it moved the air within the barrier, all it succeeded in doing was circulating the exact same air over and over again. There was no way to escape the smell, the sickly mixture of dust, neglect and death. Traces of the old sickness still clung to some places, as well, dredging up memories of the not so forgotten past. He would have closed the window long ago, but there was no point. The smell would still be there. The breeze just brought it to one's attention.   
  


The room in which he sat was dark, intentionally so to make his task easier. Too much light interfered with the viewing pool. Candles were scarce, anyhow, and not to be used lightly. They were only used in times of extreme need which had become fewer and far between as the number of inhabitants had lessened. The window offered no illumination either, the sky outside hidden behind a curtain of darkness that had not been penetrated in an endlessly long time. In all likelihood, of those still living in the palace, there would not be many who remembered what day was...or that there ever was such a thing in the first place.  
  


Nakiva remembered...somewhat. He had been sleeping when the barrier was erected, but he had seen day before then. It was a distant memory now, stored back with the other pieces of information he did not need. He sometimes dreamed of it, though, of the sky. The elders said it had been pale blue...but he dreamed it was more. Blues, purples, reds, oranges of all shades...ice and fire blending together over a rising, blazing sphere. Odd how he would remember such a thing. It was not right, somehow. The colors he saw were too dynamic...burning too vibrantly and too fiercely to sustain themselves for an entire day. Perhaps too many years had tainted his memory.  
  


Aside from a worn desk, the room was scarcely furnished — a plain bed and three bookshelves all that remained from the previous owner. Nakiva had made few additions, not having many possessions worth worrying about. The bookshelves were lined with the few books that had survived the fires and the desk was covered in scrolls and papers, mostly notes, diagrams and maps of the world outside the barrier. A tall wooden perch sat in one corner, a dark shape, barely distinguishable from the shadows, holding tenaciously to the scratched bar. Segra, Nakiva's Familiar, was sleeping with her head beneath her wing, her current form of crow one of many she preferred to take.   
  


A large stone bowl filled with water sat among the papers on the desk, the liquid clear and still for the moment. It was a makeshift viewing pool, at the least. The true pool was outside the palace grounds and therefore outside of Nakiva's reach. He had to make do with the bowl which offered only blurry, unfocused pictures, when it offered anything at all. That was yet another reason he had for frustration. How could he find anything with such wretched tools?  
  


With an angry curse, he brought his fist down on the table, crushing an unluckily placed scroll and jogging the water in the dish. Segra woke with a startled caw, flapping her wings to keep herself balanced, then glaring over at Nakiva sulkily, feathers ruffled. He did not pay her any attention, his gaze focused solely on the bowl before him. The water had been disturbed by him hitting the desk, lapping up the sides of the bowl. Normally, it would settle back and be still but, for some reason, it had not yet done so. Instead, it was rippling on its own now, concentric circles spreading from the water's center.  
  


Nakiva leaned forward and peered into the water, eyes wide. Could it be? After all this time had something finally been found? For a moment, the water offered nothing by the steadily increasing ringlets, flowing out from the middle. Gradually, however, the surface began to change, smoothing out and becoming as still as glass. It darkened, deepening into the vast blackness of the night sky. Tiny hints of starlight speckled the blackness with surprising clarity.   
  


He frowned. What good did this do? All of space looked exactly the same when it came right down to it. This vision was useless. Except...he bent closer to the bowl. There...in the upper right corner...he could _almost_ see something. It was not so much _seeing_ something, actually, as _not_ seeing anything. In one particular spot of the sky, the stars appeared to be blocked out, a circular shadow superimposed over their glittering presences.   
  


On closer inspection, it appeared to be a planet of some kind. Or a moon, perhaps. A faint view of the pockmarked, barren surface would surely seem to suggest the later. But was there life on it? There had to be or why else would he see it? An empty, lifeless planet was of no use to them. He examined the star patterns, trying to find constellations that he could later use to identify this moon on a star chart. Oddly, there seemed to be a cloud of debris surrounding it and every now and then, he could catch sight of the briefest of flickers, as if this cloud conducted some sort of electrical charge. That strange phenomena would, at least, make it easier to find.  
  


The water trembled, distorting the picture. Nakiva did not try to keep hold of it. He had seen everything he needed to pinpoint where that moon was. He watched as the vision dissolved back into the rippling liquid then sat back again in his chair, this time with the barest hint of a smile touching his mouth. Though he could not yet be completely sure, he felt a certainty that he had not felt in a long time. The moon was the key. There would once again be Believers.   
  


He would be powerful again.  



	3. 2 -- Spilled Milk

**2 — "Spilled Milk"**  
  


Lotor awoke and, as with so many mornings before, he greeted the new day with an aching groan. For some reason, he found himself more stiff than usual and looked about blurrily to discover that he had never made it into bed the night before. He had slept the entire night sitting at the small table in his room, head resting against its smooth surface. Face first, actually.   
  


He rubbed his cramped neck then, in slight embarrassment, wiped the drool from the side of his chin, looking around to make sure no one was around to see the rather undignified action. A wine glass lay on its side near his hand and he picked it up, peering cautiously inside. It was, not surprisingly, empty but for a few stray drops, the rest dripping from the table's edge and making a little pool on the floor. Part of him was relieved at this discovery, his head already beginning the sledgehammer pound of a massive hangover. Another part of him, the part that had led him to get grievously drunk in the first place, lamented the cup's emptiness, longing for just a little more respite from the real, sober, world.   
  


"Allura." he mumbled in a muzzy voice, his mouth dry and cottony. He swallowed a couple of times to try to get things back in working order. _Allura_. Everything always went back to her. Sometimes she just would not get out of his mind and then there was nothing he could look at, nothing he could hear, nothing he could smell that did not remind him of her. Lately, it had been getting worse and worse. She was like the worst kind of drug...something permanently addictive after a single taste and then eternally out of reach.  
  


_Why can't she give me a chance?_ he thought, burying his throbbing head in his hands. _Why doesn't she see how much I love her?_ It infuriated him to discover himself back on the same train of thought he had been on last night. And, still, he had no answers. The eternal cycling of questions through his head was making him ill, as was all the wine he consumed to forget them.  
  


Since he had first met the princess, he had tried many things to get her out of his mind and, at first, they had worked. As his passion for her grew, however, so did his tolerance for anything that would replace her. After awhile, the only way he could think to escape was in sleep, and even then she plagued him, dancing through his dreams, always out of his desperate reach. And recently, he had turned to the wine, drinking himself into such a stupor that he would pass out. No dreams passed through this drunken blackness or, at least, none that he could remember. For that he was thankful. But he paid the price every morning after.   
  


Feeling sick and growing increasingly angry, Lotor looked about for something within easy reach to throw. The only thing nearby was the wine glass which he immediately hurled across the room. It hit the wall then fell to the floor with a clatter, not even dented. It was a rather unsatisfying result. He pushed out of his chair and stood up a little too quickly, his head spinning and his back complaining fiercely at having to straighten up after spending the entire night in the same bent position. With a grumbled curse, he braced himself against the table until the room stopped moving about.  
  


He put his hands on his lower back and stretched as slowly as he could, trying to work out the kinks without getting too dizzy. One of the only things that could make this morning even less pleasant would be to fall flat on his posterior. Or his face. Whichever hit first. Either way, he wasn't willing to risk the bruise.  
  


At the far side of the room, the comm unit buzzed obnoxiously. Obviously, the privacy setting Lotor had put on last night was no longer in effect. Either that or it had been bypassed, which wouldn't have surprised him. "What?" he snapped, instantly regretting even the sound of his own raised voice.   
  


"Prince Lotor," began the generically monotone voice of one of the robot servants, "your father requests your presence in the throne room..." The voice paused as if listening to someone, then added in a slightly cowed tone, "Now."  
  


_Wonderful,_ Lotor thought. This was the only other thing that could make the morning more awful — having to go before his father. Zarkon's abuse and insults were hard enough to take sober. They were utter hell when suffering from a hangover.  
  


"I'm coming." he muttered, paying little attention to the soft click of the comm unit switching off. _One day I will be free of this,_ he thought to himself as he went to do his best to clean himself up. _One day I will rule this kingdom and never again have to run to my fool father's beck and call._  
  


He wet a cloth and pressed it against his face, the cool water feeling better than usual to his aching head. Lowering the cloth, he raised his eyes to he mirror, looking himself over. His handsome face looked back, though its haggard state was hardly complimentary. He watched himself absently with bloodshot eyes as he carefully brushed his hair, making sure not too pull too hard. _When I take this kingdom, everything will be better,_ he thought as he ran the brush slowly through his white tresses. _I will no longer have to worry about Zarkon and Allura will finally be my queen, just as it is meant to be._  
  


A vague smile crossed his face, his mind drifting on to the dreams he tried so hard to evade at night. It was alright to think about them in the day time because he could do something about them then. He could plan. With the strange sense of optimism that existed only when concerned with his beloved princess, he knew in his heart that he and Allura were destined to be together. All he had to do was make her understand. He would make her see. She would love him because she had no other choice.  



	4. 3 -- Elysian Fields

**3 — "Elysian Fields"**  


The planet Elysia was magnificent. It was of little wonder that it shared its name with an ancient concept of heaven. It was blanketed in lush forests and ribboned by crystal rivers. In some regions, snow topped mountains soared sharply above golden fields and in others, glittering beaches rolled gently into the azure seas. Though mostly wooded, Elysia's natural splendor was interspersed with small, technologically advanced cities, packed in tight clusters among the wilderness. The crown city of Etain was, appropriately, the planet's crowning glory with the royal palace rising like a jewel from its very center.  
  


With its bustling trade, idyllic landscapes, and cutting edge technology, the planet seemed a perfect place to set up an equally strong tourist industry. Not many would pass up the chance to come to someplace with such a desirable mix of nature and science for either a little physical relaxation or a little intellectual stimulation. Visitors to the planet would certainly have been a lucrative business arrangement and it was a logical step to take, but for one minor problem: the Elysians.  
  


Apparently, none of the peaceful beauty of the planet had rubbed off on its inhabitants. The Elysians were, as a whole, scheming, greedy and power hungry. To spend a day in their presence would be to turn the heavenly planet into a small piece of hell rather quickly. In the earlier years of the galaxy, before the Drule empire had even begun, the Elysian fleets were already fleecing their planetary neighbors for everything they were worth. Despite their levels of knowledge and technology, they were surprisingly barbaric in battle and took what they wanted in whatever means necessary. They held a vicious loyalty to their leader, their fellow Elysians, and no one else which meant that they lived together in relative peace and then took their aggressions out on whoever was named the enemy. They definitely posed a problem to the planets around them but, on their own, they could have been passed off as mere pests in the greater scheme of things. It was an alliance they had made generations earlier that made them such a legitimate threat.  
  


Symbiotic species were not at all uncommon in the universe. Some Terran birds, for instance, were known to perch on the backs of the larger mammals and eat the bugs that gathered there, thus nourishing the bird and delousing the mammal. Such mutually beneficial arrangements were sought on many different planets in many different ways and the relationship between the Elysians and the Seers was no different.  
  


The Seers were a community much like that of the witches. They had in their possession certain powers that set them apart from the world around them, their greatest gift the ability to look into anything that had a reflective surface and see whatever, whenever, and wherever they wanted and then _go_ there, power willing. What truly separated them from other magic wielding cultures, however, was the sheer fact of their existence. Whereas witches and the like relied only on themselves, the Seers _had_ to ally themselves with another society, preferably one that needed their talents because, without a sturdy base of Believers, they literally did not exist. The more people who believed in them, the stronger they became, and when all belief was gone, they popped rather painfully out of being. New generations were not so much born as spontaneously _there_. When belief was strong, suddenly there were younger Seers where there had been none before.   
  


Obviously, it was a precarious life. Existence depended on the whim of current thought. And that was why it was so important for them to attach themselves to a planet or people that required their help for, as long as they were needed, they had Believers. Thus, a partnership with the Elysians was a rather wise move of societal preservation. The population of Elysia was substantial, giving the Seers a fertile ground in which to settle themselves and, as their numbers grew, so did their power which they used to help the Elysians, which brought in more Believers, which simply brought in more power. It was a viciously efficient cycle.  
  


The danger of such a combination of forces was soon realized in the surrounding galaxy. The fear that one night a Seer could creep in through the mirror and do something unspeakable to enemies of the Elysians was enough to steel people's nerves to one cause: the defeat and possibly even the destruction of the common threat. Many planets allied their forces and this new Alliance was surprised to find that a number of the witches' orders were also offering their assistance. They would not explain their reasons for doing so, only saying that it was in the best interest of all involved that they did.  
  


In the end, it was this that defeated the Elysians. While the Alliance forces battled the Elysian army, the witches set about weeding out the Seers, creating a virus-like spell that seemed to make people forget all about them for a time. Though the spell lasted only for a moment, it spread like wildfire, and existed just long enough to force nearly every Seer out of existence. Of those that were left, they sent the youngest into hiding, putting him into a sleep in which he would be protected.  
  


The Elysian army was decimated after the loss of the Seers' power. As a final strike, the witches erected an impregnable barrier about the royal palace, trapping the last surviving Elysians and the only remaining Seer (though that without their knowledge) inside. That was the last time the palace saw daylight. Those inside were ravaged by hunger and sickness. No way could be found to escape. The few final survivors could only put their faith in the last Seer in the hopes that he could save them. The belief was small but strong, enough to revive the Seer from his sleep. He set about trying to find a way out and as quickly as possible, for though the people had faith in him, that faith would wane if he failed to encounter any success.  
  


And it _had_ started to wane. But that would all change now.  



	5. 4 -- The Best Laid Plans of Mice and Men

**4 — "The Best Laid Plans of Mice and Men"**  


The throne room was long and cold, built, like the rest of the palace, in imported white marble. This particular marble had been acquired when a shipment to another planet was intercepted and subsequently "borrowed". Large ornately carved columns ran along either side, supporting the high vaulted ceiling, and more "borrowed" merchandise, colorfully woven tapestries, hung all around the room, though they did little to add any warmth to the setting. A raised dias sat at the far end, complete with three thrones, the largest in the center where the ruler would sit, the other two left for the royal consort and heir. 

Though once grand, however, the large chamber had crumbled into disrepair. Since the enclosure of the palace and the subsequent death of most who lived there, the few remaining survivors had left their old quarters and moved what little they could into the throne room. There they huddled together for warmth at "night" and grouped during the "day", afraid to be alone in the place they once called home, but now was little more than a tomb. 

The elegant hall had become a ragtag encampment of blankets, belongings, and people scattered about on the floor. It was dark for lack of candles and the marble walls and floor kept it always cold. The acrid smell of sweat and bodies pressed close together hung heavily in the air, though those gathered took little notice of it anymore. 

Oddly, there seemed to be some sort of organization at the moment. Everyone was clustered around the throne platform, talking in hushed tones amongst themselves. Rumor had it that a discovery had been made of some importance, though no one knew what that might be. They had long since ceased any real effort to try and find a way out having, over time, gradually accepted this as an eventual death sentence. Despite this, however, even when most felt there was no chance of salvation, there was still the smallest hint of hope alive in the few, irrational though it may have seemed, that it would all work out, somehow, in the end. 

It was this, and really _only_ this, that kept Nakiva in existence. So often over the last few years he had felt himself waver somewhere between this reality and the void and knew himself to be too weak help himself one way or another. But that essential, tiny kernel of hope had always managed to keep him around, around to search for some way out. 

He considered this as he walked to the throne room and passed through the small crowd, watching them part before him. It was to these people that he owed his continuing existence — to this ragged and motley few. If something was to happen to them, if they were somehow incapacitated, he would disappear like so much smoke in the wind. What better reason was there to want to help them? He needed them as much as they needed him...for now, anyway. 

As for the people, their eyes followed his progress towards the throne with gazes both intent and afraid. At one time, the Elysians had known and reveled in the great power of the Seers, but that had been a long time ago — before many now present were born. Few still alive knew what the strange beings were capable of, the rest familiar only with stories and superstition. For the young who watched him pass, he held little reality and for the old he held...possibility. If he was anything like his predecessors, surely he could save them. 

Nakiva stopped before the throne, inclining his head slightly but making no other show of respect. Such courtly gestures were mere frivolity in a time and place such as this. The Queen took no insult. She understood the emptiness of her title as well as anyone, though it had been decided before she came to 'rule' that they would retain what structure they could from their crumbled government. Even the smallest hint of organization was a comfort to the people — it was a reminder of their old lives and better times. 

Theodolinda (not her real name — but then _all_ the queens of Elysia were Theodolindas whether they started that way or not) was the third queen to sit the throne since the palace was cut off. She was young still, just into her twenties, but like those around her, she was old beyond her years in spirit. Though she held no real power, she still felt somewhat responsible for 'her' people and she had gradually become very familiar with the feelings of impotence and futility inherent in her situation. She understood little about the Seers and was uncertain about what help the man before her could offer. Truly, she had met with him rarely and had spoken to him less. All she knew was that he said he had news that she — that they would _all_ — want to hear. 

Straightening in her seat, the young queen tried to appear collected as she said simply, "Speak." 

The crowd quieted, its attention falling fully on Nakiva who, instead of growing nervous, felt better than he had in years. Such intent, expectant focus revived hints of strength and power that had long been out of his grasp. He had been hoping..._counting_ on such a thing happening which was why he had made this a public event instead of a private conversation with the queen and the few elders who spoke as her advisors. After so many years of inactivity, he felt it would be best to have as much help as he could get. 

"Your highness," he began, "I have finally been gifted with a vision." 

The queen frowned slightly. "A vision? Of what?" 

"Of a moon some distance from here. I was unable to tell much about it from the vision itself, but since then I have studied our maps and records and I believe that I have identified it and its location." Before she could ask, he continued, "Its name is unimportant. What _is_ important is the opportunity it represents. I believe that, if we act wisely, it could be the means by which we are finally freed from this prison." 

A stream of murmuring flowed through the crowd at this in tones both disbelieving and hopeful. Many of those gathered had long been beyond such hope, but it had never been completely lost. The more skeptical among them withheld judgment for the moment though they listened just as intently as those who already believed there was a chance they could be saved. 

Theodolinda made an effort to school her expression, trying to keep the cinder of excitement she felt in her stomach hidden. She had been born into the broken spirits of the people, but she was still one of the young and dreaming. The mere hint of salvation was enough to stir something deep inside. Still, it would be unwise, she thought, to raise false expectations if nothing came of this 'vision'. 

"Please," she said in a voice tight with control, "proceed." 

Nakiva inclined his head in acquiescence. "I have been considering how best to do just that. Since the initial vision, I have endeavored to discover more of this moon and those who inhabit it, hoping to learn how best to use it and them to our best advantage. It has been difficult to study them for any extended length of time for what little I know has come to me in bits and pieces. However, I believe that it will be enough for now, and that I would be able to learn whatever else I needed in a more personal context." 

The queen motioned for him to continue. 

"There is unrest upon the moon between the ruler and what I assume is his heir. I believe them to be Drule – a race that was only beginning to show possible signs of intent to increase their power when this palace was shut in – and I believe that they have since managed to do so to a great extent. From what I can tell of the current conflict, however, these particular specimens are attempting to conquer another planet but have met continuing successful resistance from the planet's current occupants. Blame for this failure appears to perpetually fall upon the heir but I am, as yet, unsure of what the actual cause is of the failures themselves." 

All present listened closely, but more than one shifted uncomfortably as the Seer continued to lay out his observations of the planet and its people. The discomfort came into them as gradually as cold seeped into the bones – initially unnoticed until extremities began to twinge. The source of the unease came not from what was being said, but from the voice that said it, something those familiar with the Seers had forgotten after so long away from them. 

Part of the race's success arose from their ability to adopt the form and mannerisms of whomever they were currently dealing with. In their beginning, they had experimented with ways of showing their presence and power, searching for the form that inspired the most belief. After learning of religion, they took the shape of gods – separate and greater than the populace, unseen but evident through signs of power. In more primitive societies, this approach worked well – such people were easily impressed, easily made to fear and believe in something or someone above them. 

However, in more advanced civilizations, the concept of gods and religion inevitably failed. "Enlightened" by science and technology, these people no longer believed in an overarching and unseen power. They desired proof positive of all things, including such outmoded concepts as invisible deities. In such places, the Seers found it necessary to try something new lest they fade into non-existence, deciding finally on the most obvious solution – become one of them. Take the form of those around you for they will find it easier to believe the existence of the man sitting next to them then some disembodied, ethereal spirit. 

On the planets where this approach was applicable, the Seers first observed the inhabitants then created forms that embodied the build, movement, and traits of the beings around them. As this was a survival instinct, they did it with precision, incorporating the smallest details into their outward appearances to fit in. As a naturally formless species, however, they approached the creation of their bodies from the perspective of outside observers – they saw, but they did not understand. They noticed that eyes blinked, that chests rhythmically rose and fell – and they copied these carefully – but such traits were limited to the surface alone. 

A Seer's physical form was merely a husk. They had no need to eat or drink, sleep or breathe. They had no knowledge or interest of what happened _inside_ bodies – of blood and organs, of muscles and tendons – and thus they had none. Those with truly sharp eyes for minute detail added the faint lines of blood vessels to their skin but, if cut, nothing would come out. As with everything else, if put to the test, it was as if the lines were merely painted on. 

Still, they mimicked outward mannerisms as well as they could, though such actions never connected to any biological motivation. 

In passing, it was difficult to separate a Seer from anyone else. In some cases, they even found it necessary to give themselves some sort of marking or trait that pointed them out as a member of their race. To those who knew what to look for, however, there were two features that could easily identify them. The first was their eyes which, despite the great detail in both appearance and motion, remained flat and lifeless like those of a painting. And the second, which they had never successfully been able to fix, was their voices. 

Nakiva's voice was not gratingly offensive or annoying. It was basically pleasant with a mellow pitch reminiscent of woodwinds. As with such instruments, however, there was an innate hollowness to the sound that became increasingly obvious as he spoke – and it was this that reminded those who listened to him that he was not truly one of them, and this that made them unconsciously uncomfortable. 

"…and it is through the heir that I believe we have a way in." he concluded, finishing with the summation of the situation. 

"How is that?" Theodolinda asked distractedly, struggling to assimilate all of the previous information. 

For the moment, the Seer remained silent. Then, slowly, he smiled – a pull of the lips understood by him only as a tensing of muscles, though it was an expression that tended to come with almost instinctual ease to those of his kind. "He is in a position to inherit worlds…" he said finally, "…worlds that know nothing of my kind…but worlds that could be _taught_. If he succeeded in taking the planet that eludes them then succeeded in overthrowing the king, it would all be his – and the power to take down the barrier around us could be _ours_." 

The queen sat back in her seat, dwarfed by the throne that was meant for someone both older and larger. "I assume, then, that you must be able to contact him somehow. However, you mentioned many 'ifs'…and it all seems dependent upon the heir's success. If he was to help us, how could you assure his triumph?" 

Nakiva's smile widened, looking almost natural. "He will succeed, your highness. He's going to have a little help — he just doesn't know it yet."   



	6. 5 -- Through the Looking Glass

**5 — "Through the Looking Glass"**  


Sunlight flashed like white fire down the towering blade as it arced through the sky. It flared once with its own blazing luminescence then sliced downwards, cleaving the grotesquely multi-armed creature neatly in two. The robeast's death howl echoed the shouts of victory from the five pilots of Voltron — and the crow of disappointed rage from Lotor in his command ship. 

For a moment after his initial outburst, the prince was too overtaken by anger to move or speak. The robot crew, seated at their consoles behind the prince's chair, watched his rigid back in anxious silence, waiting for what they knew must come — what always came. 

They did not have long to wait. 

Regaining control over his tongue, Lotor shouted wordlessly then cursed until he ran out of breath. With his typical lack of impulse control, he grabbed the nearest throwable object and hurled it with all his strength at the view screen on which the smoking remains of Haggar's latest (and late) robeast could still be seen. As the metal goblet bounced harmlessly off the reinforced screen, the image suddenly changed, the field of failure replaced by something even worse — the king. 

"Well, _well_, my _beloved_ son." Zarkon said with the sarcastic cheerfulness that set Lotor's teeth on edge. Despite his overall annoyance at Arus' continuing success, the old fish seemed to make the best of the situation by finding his enjoyment in his son's repeated failure. "Another of Haggar's 'unstoppable' robeasts stopped and another of your 'unbeatable' plans beaten. What will the two of you try next? Actually _winning_ for a change?" 

Lotor glowered, unwilling to give his father the satisfaction of a temper tantrum. He held himself back with the calming and ever-so attractive vision of Zarkon dying slowly and in great pain, preferably at his son's hands. 

As if he knew what the prince was thinking, the king's horrible smile widened. "How you ever plan to take my throne, I'll never know. Perhaps I should find a more worthy heir — Haggar's blue cat would do. At least it makes itself useful." 

A muscle in Lotor's cheek twitched. Any self control he had was rapidly draining away, despite his intention to not give his father anything more to laugh at. His hands gripped the armrests tightly enough to make the metal creak and every part of his body grew as rigid as a steel bar in the effort to restrain himself. "What do you want, Father?" he managed to grit out through his teeth. 

Zarkon fairly giggled with glee at his son's anger. "Oh, I just thought I'd congratulate you on another monumental failure." 

"And that couldn't wait until I _returned_?" Lotor growled, well aware of the multitude of bodies behind him, trying to look like they weren't listening. 

"Not at all." Zarkon chortled, but a red glint glittered in his eyes — a glimpse of the ire that lurked behind the cruel amusement. "I couldn't wait at all. But, don't worry. I have more to say to you in person." His tone hardened with menace. "Have no doubt about that. Come to the throne room immediately upon your return. Unless, of course," his smile twisted viciously, "you can't manage to find your way there." 

Without waiting for a reply, the king disappeared and the view screen was once again filled by the land below — and a giant form approaching quickly from the ground, blazing sword still drawn. 

"Voltron is approaching, your highness." one of the robots pointed out unnecessarily. 

Rage boiling through his brain like hot tar, Lotor barely heard him. The mocking words of his father filled his ears and the sight of Voltron, the cause of his continuing failure, filled his eyes. The two came together in a cacophony of incoherence that threatened to do permanent damage to his already questionable mental state. 

Hissing breath through his teeth, he pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to force out the noise. 

"Your highness?" another robot ventured nervously. "Your orders?" 

With a final deep breath, the prince lowered his hands and said flatly, "Turn about. Return to Doom." 

He didn't wait around to see his orders being followed with desperate haste, or how close the blazing sword came to splitting the ship in half just as easily as it had destroyed the robeast. Instead, he rose from his chair and left the command room without looking back. 

He entered the room that served as his quarters onboard the ship and, for a moment, he simply stood in the doorway. In a single sudden movement, however, he lunged forward, drawing his laser sword from its sheath and slashing a nearby chair into singed kindling. With that done, the strength seemed to leave him and he dropped to the cot, his sword dangling loosely from one hand and his other arm thrown over his eyes. 

Despite all efforts to keep it out, his father's voice gradually returned, whispering inadequacies and cruel jibes. And it was joined this time by another voice — a sweet, lovely beautiful voice, the voice of Allura — but her words were just as cruel, even more so because he loved her and all she had to offer him were words of hate. 

Lotor rolled over onto his side, dropping the sword to the floor and folding the pillow over his ears as if it could block the voices from his mind. 

It had to end soon. He wasn't sure how much more of this he could take. 

* * * * * 

By the time the fleet returned to Doom, Lotor had pulled himself together. He'd gotten a little sleep, drunk a little wine, and he was feeling much more himself as he left the command ship and entered the palace. He ignored the guards who insisted on reminding him that he was expected in the throne room and went to his own quarters instead. The king was already angry. Making him wait would make about as much difference as adding a thimble of water to the ocean. 

Hoping to further his slowly stabilizing mood, the prince poured himself another glass of wine and laid out a change of clothes. Leaving them on his bed, he crossed the room to the large, freestanding gilded mirror that sat by itself, apart from the rest of the furniture. He stood before it and _looked_ at himself, trying to look past surface features to what lay below, to who he was. It was impossible to do. He had tried it before with the same result. 

As always, his handsome face and form looked back at him but it was not what he was looking for. That was what everyone else saw and no one truly knew him — not his father, not Haggar, not Allura. So, what he saw in the mirror was not really himself. _That_ was somewhere inside where others couldn't see it and where even he could only catch a glimpse. 

He examined himself for a moment more then shook his head and sighed, taking a quick drink. This was ludicrous. He was Lotor, Crown Prince of Doom and conqueror of systems. He didn't need a mirror or anyone else to tell him that. 

But then...why did he always come back to it? And why did it always feel like what he really wanted to see was beyond his reach? 

"Because you've had too much to drink." he murmured, adding quietly after a moment's thought, "Or maybe not enough." 

He lifted his goblet, looking over the rim at the mirror as he drank. 

...And there he saw a face that was not his — not even close. 

Pale skin, long purple hair, gray eyes as perfect and as empty as those of a china doll. 

Then it was gone and Lotor's familiar and rather surprised countenance looked back at him. It had happened so quickly — in the blink of an eye — but the impression remained. 

_Did it happen at all?_ he wondered uncomfortably. _Or am I seeing things now?_ That thought struck him as so intensely depressing that he leaned forward and rested his forehead against the cool glass, shutting his eyes. 

It was because of this that he failed to notice that his reflection had not done the same. 

The insistent beep of the comm unit roused Lotor from his moment of silence and he looked back at it, snarling with anger both at being interrupted and his personal frustration. 

"_What?_" 

"Lotor," came Zarkon's slightly amused (and thus viciously irate) voice, "I was under the impression that I told you to come straight to the throne room when you returned. How exactly did your foolish mind translate that to 'Go to you room and get comfortable then come at your nearest convenience'?" Not pausing for an answer, he snapped (though Lotor could still picture him grinning), "Come _now_!" 

The unit clicked back off and the prince ground his teeth. He put his free hand on the mirror's frame and pushed himself away from it with exaggerated effort, turning a much-abused expression on the glass and expecting to see it reflected back. 

He was therefore rather startled to see his reflection smiling instead, as if it was enjoying a private joke. Lotor blinked to clear his vision and, when the reflection remained the same, he leaned forward to scrutinize it more closely. 

As if it had been waiting for just such an opportunity, the reflection's smile brightened and, moving completely of its own accord, reached forward. To Lotor's further surprise, the arms were not stopped in any way by the glass. They shot through the mirror as easily as through the air itself, grabbing the prince's shoulders and jerking him forward. 

Lotor tried to struggle. His hands flew up to the frame, trying to push away as he was pulled forward, but he was caught off-guard. The goblet fell to the floor and shattered, spraying wine and glass everywhere. His reflection grinned back at his fear and, with a final strong yank, succeeded in forcing Lotor against the glass — or would have if the glass had been a tangible thing. Instead of smacking face first into the mirror as he expected, it offered no physical resistance at all. His momentum drove him forward and he fell through, into nowhere. 

Afterwards, the mirror stood as if nothing had happened. It was empty but for the usual reflection of the prince's chamber. The only sign of struggle lay on the floor — shards of glass in a puddle of blood red wine.   



End file.
